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     Looked round him, awed, subdued,
By the dreadful solitude,
     Hearing alone the cry
Of sea-birds clanging by,
     The crash and grind of the floe,
Wail of wind and wash of tide.
     ‘O wretched land!’ he cried,
“Land of all lands the worst,
     God forsaken and curst!
Thy gates of rock should show
     The words the Tuscan seer
Read in the Realm of Woe:
     Hope entereth not here!”

Lo! at his feet there stood
     A block of smooth larch wood,
Waif of some wandering wave,
     Beside a rock-closed cave
By Nature fashioned for a grave;
     Safe from the ravening bear
And fierce fowl of the air,
     Wherein to rest was laid
A twenty summers' maid,
     Whose blood had equal share
Of the lands of vine and snow,
     Half French, half Eskimo.
In letters uneffaced,
     Upon the block were traced
The grief and hope of man,
     And thus the legend ran:
We loved her!
     Words cannot tell how well!
We loved her!
     God loved her!

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French (1)
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